Within the team, familiar faces were full of fighting spirit, each fulfilling their duties, their aura at full height.
Old Zhao carried a heavy black iron battle axe on his shoulder, its blade gleaming coldly. He grinned widely, revealing a set of neat white teeth. His rugged brows and eyes were filled with fearless courage, ready to charge into battle at the command.
The tall, thin cultivator waved a plain-colored folding fan. He appeared casual and carefree, but his eyes were colder and sharper than a drawn blade. Every opening and closing of the fan concealed a deadly move, specializing in close-range ambushes and seals. Locking the escape route.
The middle-aged female cultivator’s ten fingers fluttered, and the two short-bladed twin blades spun rapidly in her palms. The blade light was fragmented and chilling, cold gleam flashing, and she was never defeated in close combat.
The white-haired elder Xu stroked his graying beard, his gaze deep and deep. Without showing any emotion, he observed the surrounding formations, predicted the uncertainties of battle, and was meticulous and controlled the overall situation.
Only Zhao Tieshan stood alone, leaning on an old ironwood cane, quietly standing at the back of the group. His posture was hunched, his cultivation completely useless, unable to fight with his blade.
Yet he insisted on personally attending to see him off, unwilling to miss this fierce battle that would determine the survival of his clan.
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